A Romanian girl in London

Project LOVE / Day 2

Another great love of mine are stories. Books’ stories, people’s stories, street’s stories. When I was a little girl, I used to read books in a breath and I felt like I was dualizing, my body remained in the room but I was living the adventures in the book body and soul, I was almost identifying myself with the heroes.

Later on, I discovered people’s stories. I like to listen to random people telling me random stories, in their own words, no figures of speech, only by using spoken words and body language. And I find it brilliant to listen to the same story told by several people. The same story becomes several different stories. Each individual lives, remembers and tells a story in his own way. I like to listen to people bringing back old memories, to look at their faces while speaking, to catch the sparkles in their eyes while reliving the memories.

Sometimes I walk the streets and I look at stories. To me it seems that all people around me carry with them pieces of their stories and I am playing by trying to put the pieces together. Why is this man wearing a yellow shirt today? Did he chose the shirt or maybe his girlfriend did? He seems like the type of guy that would go for a blonde girlfriend, not too tall. Probably she is wearing a black dress and rain boots because today it is raining outside. They didn’t have breakfast this morning because he has just bought a coffee and some donuts from across the street. And I think he left the house in a hurry, because he seems to be looking for something he cannot find in his bag. He probably left it at home, on the counter. It was Thursday yesterday so maybe he stayed out till late with his friends or maybe he made love to his girlfriend. And they woke up late this morning…

I love stories. I listen to them, I fill my soul with them, I tell them to others, the way I heard them, the way I understand them, the way I remember them. I have so many stories inside me and I wish I could tell them all. I dont’t want to die with all these stories inside me. But maybe I cannot tell a story when I want to. Maybe each story has its own time to be told.

How would the world look like without stories, without the stories from the books we read on lazy Sundays, curled up in a comfy armchair, without the stories friends tell to each other over coffee? How the long distance calls from far away friends would be without stories? How the family or school reunions would be without stories to tell?

I took this picture in Spain, on Costa del Sol. The picture shows Fuengirola River flowing into the Mediteranean Sea. Stories are like rivers. They flow and flow and flow until they reach the end. Then another story starts…